


The Inconsequential Matter of the Feet

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mandatory Labor, Post-Canon Cardassia, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never once seen Garak wear open-toed shoes while on the station, which in hindsight was clearly deliberate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inconsequential Matter of the Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written back in September for Tinsnip's birthday, crossposted just in case my tumblr ever goes belly up. Loosely in the same timeline as "Equivalent Exchange"

The light is blue-violet in the morning but then again a Human’s eye sees blue everywhere if they’ve been lying in the sun, or dozing longer than they normally do as the beam sneaks through the half-open shutters. It could almost be Earth, even the hexagonal windows with their moldings of blue-green wood can be excused as some architectural peculiarity and the illusion is maintained until Julian reluctantly unsticks his cheek from the soft fibrous strands of the blanket and looks down at the footboard of the bed where they just barely had the energy to lay out their clothes before collapsing and where the covers have slipped up to Garak’s calves.

 

No, those are definitely not Human feet.

 

Base nine as a mathematical system makes much more sense once you realize Cardassians only have four toes, making for nine counting digits on each side of the bilateral divide. The root species of sand crawler might have raked sea gravel and river mud for edibles, and, he admits grimly, probably disemboweled pinned prey with their feet. Central Command had clearly missed a priceless opportunity for psychological intimidation because the standard military jackboots are much less disconcerting than seeing a pretty young girl at the festival with pasht carefully lining her center neck scales and her jet black footclaws flexing autonomously with excitement, leaving shallow grooves in the rock-hard recycled fiber of her platform shoes.

 

Sandals and pumps are easy, cheap to make and suddenly in fashion everywhere. Nevermind the shortages and how every beautiful non-essential thing has now become a cottage industry. All the government has space to care about is infrastructure, schools, farms, which everyone agrees is “just as it should be.” So it sometimes comes to pass that when the filtered rain is unpredictable and turns dusty town squares into fields of mud two old friends might sit side by side tying on their platform shoes and one might smile ruefully and say ‘Not to worry my dear, we are all very much on trend. After all, Summer is only a few months away.’

 

He had never once seen Garak wear open-toed shoes while on the station, which in hindsight was clearly deliberate. It’s almost a shame, he has lovely ankles - shapely and smaller than he expected considering they aid with the walking, sneaking and waltzing of the rest of Garak’s not-inconsiderable mass. On the other hand he understands better now, that an essential part of keeping his dignity was to reserve some parts of his body for his own kind (and now, one notable exception). Besides, ‘Cardassians are beasts’ was a common sentiment on too many worlds and Garak’s defiantly perfect manners, mellow voice and air of civilization was in itself a kind of ongoing battle. Doubtless he had dispassionately reviewed his claws and listed them as a liability.

 

Mostly what he remembers from back then, in between idly, childishly planning what it would take to get Garak to willingly roll his sleeves up above the wrist, was how he hated the months when anti-Cardassian sentiment ran high and his eminently pragmatic friend wore gloves and sensible Starfleet-issue loafers and high collared tunics that went up to his chin to the point where from the back he could almost be mistaken for Human.

 

Garak’s feet are in somewhat rougher shape than he’s used to seeing them, then again both their bodies are at present. Usually he’s quite strict with the after-care, he thinks of it as his 'survived-another-day-in-glorious-service-to-the-State' reward to fix every pulled muscle and relax every knot but yesterday’s work-site had been so far away that they had only done the minimum - wash and sleep.

 

Their sub-district had ‘won’ the lottery for the rebuilding shifts, and he had the hard luck of being off the essential personnel list of the Healing Center for the week. No one technically had the authority or the courage to ‘volunteer’ Garak, but barring something absolutely crucial he always went with him. Spousal law was quite clear in these matters and it seemed his husband took a perverse delight in both exercising his rights and the wonder-apprehension on the processing staff’s faces.

 

Though spending his tour of duty on Starfleet’s ‘frontier’ had given him the impression that he was tougher than most officers - it might have even been correct - Cardassia had laughed in his face and sent him sprawling into the dirt. Honestly, he’s never done so much hard labor in his life. Sometimes, especially in letters to Miles, it was tempting to make a flippant remark or two about getting more rest in the Jem’Haddar prison camp but if he really lets his mind prod at that cold flat place in his history he concludes that he would have rather liked having something to do instead of sitting in solitary and watching his psyche flake to pieces.

 

At least in deference to his profession they gave him work that wouldn’t damage his hands which yesterday had meant straining in the harness as he bodily dragged chunks of broken columns and masonry. Behold, the mighty Augment - Humanity’s pinnacle of genetic engineering - little more than a sweaty, dusty beast of burden and gently laughing at himself got him through the worst of the afternoon. In some small compensation, Garak stopped by and discreetly ate up his damp hair and heaving flanks with proud, hot eyes all the while slyly insinuating how troublesome it was to field compliments from the lovely widows of the district about how nice it was to find a man who knew his way around an electrical grid until Julian had smiled dangerously and threatened to kiss him in public.

 

There’s almost a routine to it now. First the work, then surreptitiously exchanging little pressed meal cubes with some of his equally nonessential-and-unfortunate nurses since his alien taste buds really like the pink ones which everyone insists are completely vile. Then sitting in line with everyone while the local schoolchildren carried the symbolic fresh-brewed cups of red leaf tea to the work crews. Even here there was some improvement, an especially brave girl snatched a cup off the communal tray and made a beeline for him in particular. She stared but didn’t flinch as he took it out of her hands and later he saw her holding court - lecturing a semicircle of younger children, hopefully to the tune of “Humans aren’t really that frightening and also enjoy tea like normal People.”

 

Honestly he likes being useful, he probably likes it a little more than is healthy ( Ezri’s observations about his martyrdom streak were all the more painful for being dead-on ) but he thinks of it as repurposing a character flaw in service to his new home. When he says as much Garak gives him a look that on the surface seems merely fond and exasperated but since it’s a look from Garak so it goes a dozen layers down and the one closest to the heart of him says ‘you’ve given me a happiness that has stolen my words’. It’s no wonder, really, that he has ended up here where even his many faults occasionally transform to graces.

 

In a society charged with producing hyper-competent adults intimacy is doing small ‘insignificant’ things for a partner, fixing their hair, packing their traveling meals, buffing their nails.

 

He sits up in the bed, lets the sun stroke soothing warmth across his aching shoulders, scratches along his lightly stubbled jaw and then carefully strokes three fingers along the bottom of the foot. Instinctively the short toes curl around his fingers and the claws slide out a little further, gently but firmly trapping the small source of heat. Heaven help him, it makes him smile wider especially when he playfully tries to tug the fingers free and clearly even asleep Garak is having none of it.

 

Which almost presents a problem, but aha - here’s to improved flexibility! He twists around just enough to reach and pull out the storage drawer on the side of the bedframe and rummages until he finds a polishing cloth. Little by little the hairline scratches disappear from the jet black bone.

 

Something changes in the room between one swipe of the cloth and the next. Julian looks over his shoulder. Up by the headboard Garak is awake, fully awake - the translucent secondary eyelid is down, his blue eyes are lovely and clear against his face and the soft white blanket. He’s looking at him, the look is the same.

 

-


End file.
